Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

The Prince’s huge horse began neighing and twitching, stamping and prancing. Krai turned and for the briefest moment caught the eye of the beast and knew in his soul that this was the horse he had Spoken with. He wept, begging destiny for this chance.

The Prince had lost control of his mount. His long crop thrashed down again and again, but the horse paid no attention. Finally it kicked out at Don Arturo’s mount, who likewise snorted and began to buck.

The mounts, whom the soldiers had thought so well trained, all began to rear and scream. A few riders were thrown, but most stayed on, raging at the horses and trying to master them. Then they began to run.

Krai was forgotten as the crazed beasts began to circle inside the fortress walls. Around and around they went, the riders hauling on useless reins.

*What should we do with them, friend?

Take them away! The gate! Take them through the gate!

The Prince’s horse pulled away from the swarming mass, leaping and screaming. Krai saw the man clutching the mane with both hands, his legs flopping against the saddle, as terrified as the peasant he had doomed minutes before.

In a flash, Krai saw that he was master of an army, too—an equine army. And he knew what Garva would have done. He was safe amid the horses.

“Follow me!” he yelled, running alongside the tide of horse flesh. He pushed through, beaten by the hooves and shoulders of the animals, feeling no pain, but exulting in freedom, and the strength of his allies.

The horses charged through the gate. Before them rose the stakes, their white points gleaming.

“Now!” screamed Krai. “Throw them off! Now!”

The Prince, aghast, heard that voice of command and stared for a heartbeat at the youth he had condemned. Then his horse went berserk. He held on as tight as he could, but his strength was too puny, and with a desperate, futile grab for the horn of his saddle, he felt himself lofted into the air. There was a moment of peace, and then searing, unimaginable pain as he came gut first down upon a cottonwood spear. His screams were lost in the noise of men and horses. Those who looked saw two feet of reddened wood penetrating the man’s back, and his wretched thrashing and kicking.

The horses saw and understood. Rider after hapless rider found himself charging into the array of stakes and then facing a hellish tortured death. Those who hit the ground died faster, beneath iron-shod hooves.

Krai ran among the riderless horses, the knife of a dead man in his hand, cutting the bridles off as fast as he could. The sound of riot and war had summoned the villagers, and soon Krai saw other friends, two-leg friends, coming fearlessly into the stampede, to kill the few invaders who managed to remain on their feet.

Then it was over and the horses slowed their manic battle. Not one of the Prince’s men would survive to see the dawn. The villagers were free. It was hard to believe.

Slowly they came together in two quiet groups, the horses and the people. The peasants watched as Krai went up to the huge horse the Prince had once had the arrogance to ride.

Thank you for saving me, he Spoke. You saved everyone here. We all thank you.

*The one who rode me killed your friend, because your friend would not let him ride.

Comet’ s-son?

Yes.

Krai stood silently. There was nothing to say.

We learned that we need not obey the iron in our mouths. Tell the other two-legs that. We would be friends and allies, not servants.

Krai did so.

*Is it true that there are tribes above the Sun where we and the two-legs all Speak as you and 1 do?

/ have heard it. but I don’t know.

*We wish to look for them. I’ll take you with me, on my back, if you wish.

Krai Raus-son considered it. Raus had long since died, and his mother too. His friend and mentor, Glaze, had been murdered. And Garva, who would have been his friend if he had lived through this night. Who or what was there to keep him here at Peony and Phlox?

I'll go, Krai Spoke unhesitatingly. I’m not afraid.

The Swordsman Smada

by John Steakley

John Steakley has led a busy life. He has been a stock-car racer, a semipro football player, a private detective, an actor, a car salesman, and, of course, a writer. He has been writing for the movies for the last nine years, has completed one novel, Armor, and is awaiting publication of another, entitled Vampires.

It made sense that we were there.

It just made sense. That’s how come we could accept it so easily. It was where we were supposed to be. It just made sense.

At least, that’s what we thought before the slaughter began.

Lanny and me—that’s Lanny Weaver, my best friend— were big into the Horseclans like you can’t believe. Like even I can’t believe, looking back on it. We ate ’em and drank ’em and talked ’em! God, how we talked ’em! We’d stay up all night all the time talking Horseclans stuff. And of course we always ended up talking about how neat it would be to really be there, really live in that world. To know Bili the Axe personally and hang out with him. And Milo. We wanted to meet Milo Morai more than anybody, of course. But we didn’t really care if we never even saw him if we could just be there ! Hot damn! Really be there! Carrying swords and petting prairiecats and wenching and just traveling around kicking ass whenever we wanted to without any cops or anybody to bug us. The Horseclans world was infinitely better than our own, we believed, and we talked about that a lot, too.

We dressed like ’em, too. We had tunics and stuff. And chain mail made special by some retired army tank guy in Richmond, Virginia. And swords, too, made by the same dude. We had everything. Really. Daggers and stuff. Wineskins. Leggings.

And we wore them. At science fiction conventions and at meetings of our club and at SCA tournaments, which is really how all this happened. What, as Lanny said, “tipped us over the edge.”

Anyway . . . you know what the SCA is? The Society for Creative Anachronism? If you know about Horseclans you probably know about them. But anyway, the SCA are a bunch of folks heavy into medieval life-styles. They dress up like those days, women too, and they have big feasts and tournaments where knights fight to establish the pecking order and determine who the king is. The king is the best fighter of everybody and he gets his choice of queen, which is sorta how the trouble got started, except Lanny and me weren’t trying to be king—it wasn’t that big a tournament. We were just trying to get laid.

You see, there were these two new girls just moved to town. They were sisters and they were . . . well, dynamite-looking. Gorgeous. And sexy, too. Really sexy. Blondes. I’ve always loved blondes. Lanny, too. So we set out to win their hands in trial by combat. And they’d made it real clear that it could be done. Win more than their hands, if you get what I’m driving at. Oh, those two were really something. They had us huffing and puffing. And they were eating it up the whole time. They had every dude in the club ready to kill himself—or anybody else—to get some of what they were offering. And the girls loved that, too. The funny thing was, we didn’t care. I mean, we knew what it said about those two if they liked causing all that trouble and strife and the rest of it. But we didn’t care. They would smile these smug little smiles—dimples and the rest—and then wag away real slow and we’d just stand there like idiots until they were out of sight.

And then we’d go practice like crazy. Huffing and puffing and pawing the ground.

Then the tournament came. It was in the spring and everything was real and pretty and we were all camped out in the country with trailers and tents and stuff. It was really nice.

Sunshine and green grass and long flowing dresses and the like.

And we—Lanny and me—we were ready. Ready and psyched up and, most important of all, in shape. We had been working out together all winter long. Before the two sisters even showed up, even. 1 mean—we were ready.

And then the Incredible Hulk showed up and entered the tournament.

We called him the Incredible Hulk because . . . well, if you’d seen him you would too. His real name was Something Jones but he went by Bubba.

No kidding. Bubba.

But the point is, he was as big as a house. Slow as hell. Much slower than Lanny and me—but then that was our big deal, speed, and always had been. We were faster than any of the rest of them. And strong, like I said, because we were in shape from working out all that time. Stronger than most and faster than anybody and . . .

And it didn’t help. Bubba pounded us both. Badly. I mean, really. We must’ve struck him ten times for every time he hit us, but the thing is, every time he hit one of us we’d bounce. It was frustrating as hell. Not to mention painful. Of course, you really couldn’t get hurt too badly with masking-taped cane swords. All the weapons had to be taped up heavily. That was part of the rules. Nobody wanted to get skewered. But, see, that was the point. While we were getting dribbled by this guy we kept thinking: If this was real, we’d have killed him ten minutes ago.

But none of that made any difference. Bubba won and won so decisively that he got both sisters and then to top it all off was loud and obnoxious about it and then rude and crude to the girls, and you know what? They didn’t even seem to mind. They let him get away with it. He was a jerk and clumsy and loud, but . . .

But he had won.

Dammit!

The party afterward wasn’t much fun. Lanny and I spent most of it gritting our teeth. Oh, we were nice and all—what choice did we have? But it wasn’t much fun. Maybe it was that awful mead stuff we were drinking that somebody had made in his garage. Or maybe it was watching Bubba feeling up both girls in public.

Anyway, we left. Supposedly to go back to our trailer and get the tequila, but mostly just to get away from the rest and talk.

Only we didn’t. We sat there across from each other, both covered with grass stains and humiliation, and didn’t say a word for several minutes.

Then Lanny spoke: “Mr. Felix?”

“Yes, Mr. Weaver?”

“Let’s get dressed.”

1 grinned, said: “Yeah!”

And we did. Put on our best tunics, not the junk we wore for tournaments. The realistic stuff. The chain mail and the rest.

And the real swords. And the real daggers.